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him was that somebody had seen them leave, in which case a description might
follow. Those fears were eased somewhat, but not eradicated entirely, when the
spokeswoman announced that they were seeking a black male and at least one
other unidentified person in connection with what had occurred.
Virgil Gossard, thought Louis. They should have killed him when they had the
chance, but if he was the only witness and all he knew was that one of the men
was black then they had little to worry about, although the possibility that
the police knew more than they were saying troubled him vaguely. It would be
better if he and Angel separated for a time, and the decision brought his
thoughts back to the man in the room above him. He lay thinking about him
until the streets beyond grew quiet, then left the motel and began to walk.
The phone booth stood five blocks north, in the parking lot behind a Chinese
laundry. He dropped in two dollars in quarters, dialed, and heard the phone
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ring three times at the other end before it was picked up.
It s me. I got something for you to do. There s a gas station down by the
Ogeechee, on 16 out of Sparta. You can t miss it, place look like the
Teletubbies decorated it. The old guy inside need to remember to forget the
two men that passed through his place yesterday. Man will know what you re
talkin about.
He paused and listened to the voice at the other end of the line.
No, it come to that I will do it myself. For now, just make sure he
understand the consequences if he decide to be a good citizen. Tell him the
worms don t make no distinction between good and bad meat. Then find a man
called Virgil Gossard, a regular local celebrity by now. Buy him a drink, see
what he knows about what went down. Find out what he saw. When you re done and
back you call me, then check your messages for the next week. I got something
else I may need you for.
With that, Louis hung up the phone, removed the cloth from his hand, and used
it to wipe down the phone keys. Then, head low, he walked back to the motel
and lay awake until the passing cars grew sparse and a stillness descended on
the world.
And so these two remained in their separate rooms, apart but somehow together,
barely thinking about the men who had died at their hands that night. Instead,
one reached out to the other and wished him peace, and that peace was granted,
temporarily, by sleep.
But true peace would require a sacrifice.
Already, Louis had some idea of how that sacrifice might be achieved.
Far to the north, Cyrus Nairn was enjoying his first night of freedom.
He had been released from Thomaston that morning, his possessions contained in
a black plastic garbage bag. His clothes still fitted him no better or no
worse than they ever had, for incarceration had made little impact on Cyrus s
crooked body. He stood outside the walls and looked back at the prison. The
voices were silent so he knew that Leonard was there with him, and he felt no
fear at the sight of the things that crowded along the walls, their huge wings
drawn back against their bodies, their dark eyes watchful. Instead, he reached
behind his back and imagined that he felt, at either side of his curved spine,
the first swellings of those great wings upon his own body.
Cyrus made his way to Thomaston s main street and ordered a Coke and a
doughnut in the diner, pointing silently at the items that he wanted. A couple
at a nearby table stared at him, then looked away when he caught their eye,
his demeanor giving him away as much as the black bag at his feet. He ate and
drank quickly, for even a simple Coke tasted better outside those walls, then
gestured for a refill and waited for the diner to empty. Presently, he found
himself alone, with only the women behind the counter to cast the odd anxious
glance in his direction.
Shortly after midday, a man entered and took the table next to Cyrus. He
ordered a coffee, read his newspaper, then departed, leaving the newspaper
behind. Cyrus reached out for it and pretended to read the front page, then
dropped it back on his own table. The envelope concealed within the
newspaper s folds slid into his hand with only the gentlest of jingles, and
from there, into the pocket of his jacket. Cyrus left four dollars for his
food on the table, then walked quickly from the diner.
The car was an anonymous, two-year-old Nissan. Inside the glove compartment
was a map, a piece of paper with two addresses and a telephone number written
upon it, and a second envelope, containing one thousand dollars in used bills
and a set of keys for a trailer located in a park near Westbrook. Cyrus
memorized the addresses and the number, then disposed of the paper by
masticating it into a wet ball and dropping it down a drain, as he had been
instructed to do.
Finally, he leaned down and felt beneath the passenger seat with his hand. He
ignored the gun taped into place and instead allowed his fingers to brush the
blade once, twice, before he raised them to his nostrils and sniffed.
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Clean, he thought. Nice and clean.
Then he turned the car and headed south, just as the voice came to him.
Happy, Cyrus?
Happy, Leonard.
Very happy.
14
I LOOKED AT myself in the mirror.
My eyes were bloodshot and there was a red rash across my neck. I felt like
I d been drinking the night before: my movements were out of sync and I kept
bumping into the furniture in the room. My temperature was still above normal
and my skin was clammy to the touch. I wanted to crawl back into bed and pull
the covers up over my head, but I didn t have that luxury. Instead, I made
coffee in my room and watched the news. When the Caina story came on, I put my
head in my hands and let my coffee go cold. A long time went by before I felt
certain enough of myself to start working the phone.
According to a man named Randy Burris at the South Carolina Department of
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